Someone’s in Anguish, That’s All You Know

To bark out, to cry, to scold,
Moan, wail, weep, lament. The art
Appeals to the composer

And the priest—how many songs
And rituals are laments?
But it’s rare cries of despair

Are as moving as they’re moved,
Sympathetic responses
Of the nerves notwithstanding.

To really feel the breakdown
Is reserved for the broken.
The wail is a reaction,

A sequel to suffering
And an extension. No art
Is equal to suffering.